The Mug
by Yumi-wheeler
Summary: John is having a crap day, he sees red when he finds Sherlock among the remains of his favorite mug. The mug given to him by a very special person. Will their friendship survive the aftermath? Rated for John's bad mouth.


Just something I thought up and wouldn't go away. I love Johnlock but I seemed to have gone away from that here. Sherlock is a bit OOC fair warning. Thanks for reading!

**  
Sherlock was bored. It had been several days since he'd last had a case, and his brain felt like it was melting into his skull. After spending the last 24 hours sorting through his mind palace, he decided to do something a little more interactive. Striding into the kitchen he grabbed his chemistry kit and placed it onto the scrubbed wooden table. Reaching under the sink he grabbed a few household chemicals adding it to his set. Turning he decided the small kitchen was too dark so he reached out and opened the flowery curtains Mrs Hudson had insisted on putting up, blinking into the bright morning sun. Taking a quick glance out on the street he noticed the neighbors across the street were separating for the third time that year. Rolling his eyes at the stupidity of the human race, he turned back to his chemistry set, childlike glee written on his face.

Like any other male in the species, Sherlock loved a good explosion. The best part being he didn't have to go the movies or a crowded area to get his explosions, he could make them himself. He placed his safety goggles on and sat down getting ready to work.

Getting the componants he was working with took complete concentration, so naturally Sherlock didn't notice anyone was around, until a horrendous crash pulled him from his thoughts. Jumping up and placing his pipet to the side, he glanced around quickly assessing the situation.

was looking startled and a bit upset. Surrounding her feet was the remains of a green character mug. Sherlock sighed, it was John's favorite mug, and he couldn't remember why but it was VERY IMPORTANT. More than once Sherlock had been lectured that he was not to touch that mug under any circumstance.

Grumbling he pulled out his phone, deciding to order another one. Hopefully that would make it a little better. He wasn't familiar with these sort of customs but it was the best he could do.

Searching amazon, it took him a minute to recall the characters name. Ah Kermit the frog. He was confused as to why that stuck in his mind palace, but he supposed it was in case this very situation came about. Quickly placing the order, he snorted in irritation when he noticed that it would take upwards of six weeks to get to the flat even when he put in express delivery. Bloody Americans.

Finishing, he noticed that Mrs Hudson was still standing among the glass staring at him with tears in her eyes. Well that did it, he supposed he should take the blame for the glass because Mrs Hudson was upset enough without John going off on her.

"Mrs Hudson, do stop the snivelling. I ordered a new one. Now go downstairs and take your herbal soother and watch crap telly. I'll take care of this."

The older lady wiped her eyes before carefully stepping over to her tennant. She kissed his cheek and smiled through the tears. "You're a good man Sherlock Holmes. No matter what you pretend."

Sherlock snorted, but gave a small smile as he heard Mrs. Hudson head down the stairs. He waited until he heard her television come one and the sound go up before moving towards the glass.

Kneeling he began to gather the pieces in his hand. He'd only grabbed a couple pieces when he heard the heavy footsteps of his roommate coming down the stairs. He swore under his breath, grabbing another piece.

"What happened?" John's voice was deadly quiet and angry.

"The mug fell. Obvious..." His sentence was cut off as John strode across the room and grasped him by the back of his robes, pinching skin and lifting Sherlock clear away from the glass.

Said detective was confused. He was used to John's overprotective tendancies to a degree, but it wasn't like either of them hadn't picked up glass with their hands before. Turning he looked at his roommate about to speak. One look and he decided for once that silence was his friend.

John's face was a deep red, his eyes almost black and he literally had a vein throbbing on his forehead.

"One thing." He started yelling, causing Sherlock to almost jump." ONE BLOODY THING IN THIS HOUSE AND YOU COULDN'T LEAVE IT ALONE COULD YOU?! I suppose you don't even remember why it was important."

Sherlock tilted his head, once more attempting to scan his mind palace to see if it was tucked in a corner somewhere. He held back a gasp as he was pulled back to the present by a tight grip on each of his wrists. John was gripping them and started to shake Sherlock back and forth by them. The detective could feel bruises forming from where the bloggers fingers and thumbs were digging deep into his skin. He felt the bone shift in his left wrist. Of course it would, that was John's dominant hand so it would be the stronger of the two.

Deciding that he should probably try to get himself carefully out of John's grip, because the man wouldn't forgive himself later if he did something, he managed to rip his left arm from the other man's grip and started to turn.

"Really John this is just..." John tugged at his right arm pulling Sherlock back towards him, because of his angle, Sherlock heard as much as felt the bone in his wrist crack and break. Biting his lip, he was surprised when John continued to yank him by his injured arm. Finally he forced himself to face his flatmate, who immediately gripped his other wrist again. Sherlock held back a whimper as the hand tightened on his injured arm.

"Don't you dare call me foolish. Just because your such a prick that no one cares to give you anything doesn't mean you can treat my stuff like crap. I mean is this why no one else would live with you? You have no respect, no idea about anything." He shoved Sherlock away from him, who in turn landed in the pile of glass.

The detective just stared up at John, almost, not that he would admit it, fearfully. This was a flashback to when he was young and unable to defend himself against everyone that wanted to hurt him. He couldn't fight back because he was already fighting with his mind to remember that he was an adult and didn't have to be pushed around.

"You...you just really are a freak aren't you?" Sherlock couldn't help it, he lowered his head in anguish. He really should have known better than to think John would be different than anyone else. It was a mug, a silly mug. Sure it was a gift, but Sherlock was under the impression that it was supposed to be the thought that mattered not the object. However, here John was throwing him around like everyone else always did, treating him like he meant less than a mug. Maybe... maybe he really was hopeless. If John the nicest person that there was could believe it, it must be true.

"Are you even listening?" John yelled, turning and in a fit of anger he swept his arm across the kitchen table, sending Sherlock's chemistry equipment crashing to the floor. Glass breaking all around the detective, who huddled there miserably.  
Giving a furious sigh and running a hand roughly through his hair, John turned to leave.

"Clean this up and just keep out of my way. I'm going out."

Sherlock waited until he heard the doctor head down the stairs and go out the door. Then he carefully stood, cradling his injured arm to his chest. Moving over to the closet, he grabbed the broom. Awkwardly he began to sweep the floor using his left hand and body in a difficult manuevar to get all the glass in a pile. Then using his foot to hold the dust pan in place, he methodically cleaned the piles and dumped them in the trash. Forty five minutes later and he was studying his microscope to see the damage. He sighed because the glass was cracked and unsalvagable. He tossed it on top of the pile, before tiredly moving into the bathroom.

Sherlock looked in the mirror for a moment. He scowled at his reflection. Why was he letting this emotional stuff get to him? Caring was not an advantage. But try as he might he couldn't stop the hurt from John's words filtering through him. The echo of freak resonated through him. Shaking himself, he turned his attention to carefully removing his housecoat. Biting his lip against the pain, he finally tossed it onto the toilet and looked at his damaged wrist. His stomach dropped at the sight of it. It was completely purple so dark that it looked black, and the way the bruises formed, he knew that the doctor's would know someone inflicted the wound on him.

Sherlock knew then that he could not take this to the hospital. Mycroft would know that Sherlock didn't have a case, which meant the only one capable of doing this would be John. Sherlock didn't want John to get in trouble and he certainly didn't want to deal with Mycroft trying to throw his weight around. Settled on that, Sherlock rummaged around finally finding an ace bandage and a bottle of paractemol.

Carefully he felt around until he found the break. He gripped his wrist and counted to three before twisting it so the bones were back in place. He hit his knees, gasping quietly, sweat poring down his face. After a moment, using his teeth and left arm, he managed to wrap his break tightly with the ace bandage. Knowing he'd have to be careful because the bandage was no substitute for a cast, he tossed back three paractemol before tossing it back in the cupboard.

Standing, feeling a little woozy, he stumbled down the hall to his room. Moving about, he put his mind half in its palace so he could get dressed without feeling the overwhelming pain.

Finally ready, he grabbed his phone, texting Lestrade that he was coming and the man better have some cold cases. Then he left, locking the door behind him, without looking back.

When John woke up that morning, he thought it was going to be a simple day. Have a cup of tea, keep Sherlock occupied, maybe dinner out. A relaxing day off. The minute his phone went off, he knew that was right out the window. Sighing he'd answered.

"Halloo Jooohn. HOw's my little brother." John winced at Harry's slurred voice.

"What is it Harry?" He asked sighing.

"What I can't jus call ter talk?"

"Not when your drunk." He said

"Fine...yer right, I got picked up fer drunk and disorderly conduct last night. If you can believe that." John snorted but said nothing, he could believe it but he wouldn't say so." I need yer ter come down and bail me out."

John wanted to say no, he really wanted to. But Harry was the only family he had left, and he was all she had left.

"Fine...just fine I'll be there soon."

Sighing he'd stood and dressed. Then allowing his army training to leak through he'd straightened his bed and room. Temper seething he'd gone downstairs to grab a cup of tea, before he once again used all his money to bail Harry out.

So the last thing he'd wanted to see was Sherlock kneeling on the floor cleaning up the remains of his favorite mug. The mug had been a gift from his mother the night before she had passed away. He'd already lost his father to a car accident years earlier. Then his mother had been ill with cancer. Hence why he had decided to become a doctor. Just after he'd finished his exams, he had been called to his mother's side. She hadn't much time left. He'd pleaded with every higher power he could think of, to have her hold on. But when he'd gotten there and saw how ill she was. How still and pale. He knew that it would be kinder to just let her go. The two of them had always shared a mutual love of the muppets. So she had given him the mug his father had bought her for their first anniversary. She'd wanted him to take it to remember her by. The next night with Harry and himself at her bedside, she had passed peacefully in her sleep. That mug had been through hell and back and then his bloody roommate had gone and smashed it. John had seen red. He couldn't remember what had taken place, he'd essentially blacked out. Not really coming too until he'd reached the police station and began to work out the details of the bail.

Now hours later, he'd gotten Harry settled at home. Once again lectured her about her drinking. Not that it would do any good, and finally made it home. He stormed up the stairs, keeping an ear out in case Sherlock was home. He really didn't want to run into him again, because he knew he would go off. Walking in he realized all the lights were off and sighed in relief. Walking in the kitchen he flipped on the light and bustled about making tea, getting angry again when he realized he didn't have his mug, but just grabbed another making the drink to his liking. Heading out of the kitchen deciding to watch crap telly before bed, a glint caught his eye. Looking in the trash, he felt a little uneasy. Sherlock's entire chemistry set sat in it, on top his clearly broken microscope. He started to wonder if he'd done that, until he saw the remains of his mug surrounding it. Anger flairing again, he decided whatever happened, it served Sherlock right. He snapped off the light and sat in his chair forgetting about his roommate, the day and his mug. Just focusing on Top Gear.

Lestrade walked into his office one morning several weeks later and wasn't sure whether he was surprised or not that Sherlock was still there. The man had come in one morning about five weeks earlier and as far as he could tell he hadn't left. Sherlock had taken a stack of cold cases to the corner of his office, saying nothing he began to go through them. Lestrade studied him now and realized the other man was still holding his right arm close to his body. If he shifted it, SHerlock had a look of barely concealed pain on his face. Lestrade wondered what happened. There hadn't been a case for him to get hurt one. So he wondered what happened and why John hadn't looked at it or taken him to the hospital. But Lestrade knew by now that just asking Sherlock straight out would get him no where.

"Shouldn't you be getting home, John probably is wondering where you are." He didnt miss the flash of hurt at the mention of of the army doctor, although it was gone so quick he thought he imagined it.

"John is busy." Sherlock said shortly before turning his attention back to the file in front of him.

"Well if you say so."

Sherlock shifted again his wrist moving. "I'm quite sure." He snapped back.

Sighing Lestrade went to his desk. He wasn't going to get involved when Sherlock was like this. Hopefully he'd calm down and he could talk him into telling him what happend. Lestrade had long ago looked at all the files he could about Sherlock's past. He knew that the other man had been bullied mercilessly. He had often been put in the hospital because of the bullies, but he was just as often put in the hospital for other reasons. Given his attitude about his own safety, or lack there of and the fact he pushed people away so hard, Lestrade was sure that the kid had been abused by his parents. He wasn't sure what types but he did know that it was intense. That was what had caused him to take the detective under his wing. Giving him work to do and making sure he was clean and relatively safe. He had been pleased when Sherlock had let John in. Even a little. Although now he wondered if it had been such a good thing.

Deciding that he would go speak to John if this wasn't fixed in a few days, Lestrade sat at the desk allowing the young detective to remain in the corner of his office.

*****  
Sherlock worked steadily throughout the day, he only looked up when early afternoon, Lestrade recieved a call about a murder case. Jumping up he'd followed Lestrade out of the building getting the address from him before hailing a cab.

Getting there he'd run into Donovan and Anderson.

"Oi freak, where's your pet doctor." Reminded of John, he'd held his wrist closer to his body but otherwise ignored them.

"Ah did you have a lover's quarrel." Sally asked nastily.

Once more ignoring them, he paced the crime scene, fully in deducing mode.

Male caucasion, around twenty three. His head had been bashed in. Looked like he'd been hit twice, the object was to the side. Not premeditated then. Looking closer he saw lovebites on the boys neck, but no lipstick. Pulling his wallet out, he found a picture of the boy and another young man. Lover's quarrel gone bad. As he twisted around the scene again, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Looking up quickly he saw a man running away from the window.

"Suspect." He snapped before running, and jumping out the window. He took off down the road keeping the guy in his sights. He ignored the jarring of his wrist, as he ran. The guy seemed to be in great shape, but Sherlock knew he'd mess up somewhere. No one knew the streets like he did. Soon he was proven correct. They'd been running for probably ten minutes when the boy took a right turn into an alley Sherlock knew was a dead end. Skidding around the corner, Sherlock berated himself later for just running in like that. He let out a strangled scream as the guy tackled him, his injured wrist getting between them.

Breathing deeply Sherlock used his good arm to jab the guy in the eye. Who howled and stepped back, but grabbed Sherlocks bad wrist, seeming to know that it was injured. Sherlock gasped again, before kicking out into the back of the guys knee. The guy tumbled and Sherlock managed to get his wrist back. In pain and angry because he couldn't block it out he kicked the guy in the gut and then sat on him.

"Geroof."

"Why did you attack me? I was aware you didn't kill him on purpose."

"Cops never believe you, especially when you run. Now get off."

"I don't think so. Now their really not going to be kind to you. You ran twice."

"Get off."

"Not likely."

"Anyone every tell you you are annoying."

"Often."

"Can't you just handcuff me or something."

"I didn't pick pocket them, I was too busy chasing you."

"Hey freak!"

Sherlock winced as the caddy voice came down the alleyway.

"We haven't got all day Sally." He snarked.

"Well if you would let the real officers do their work then..." She paused as she reached Sherlock, who realized too late both his wrists were showing as he'd unconciously pushed up the sleeves of his belstaff. Before he could cover them, Sally gently grabbed his left wrist. "Woah fre-uh Sherlock did he do that." She noticed the black bruises littered liberally along his wrist.

"Don't be stupid Donovan." He snapped tugging his wrist back to no avail. "His fingers aren't big enough to make those and you can see I've already put an ace bandage on this wrist previously. Now would you kindly let go."

"Lestrade you need to come here." She yelled ignoring his request to release him. Grumbling he stopped struggling because all it accomplished was flaring up the bruises. Sitting impatiently he avoided Lestrade's gaze as the man came running down kneeling next to him. He took the wrist carefully from Sally studying it. Then he took the other wrist gently, noting Sherlock's flinch back before allowing him to take it. Carefully he unwrapped it and heard the gasps of Donovan, Anderson and himself at the mess he found.

The arm was bruised black from the tip of his fingers to his elbow. The bruises were a clear indicator that someone had done this to Sherlock.

"Sherlock what happened?" Lestrade asked, but the consulting detective looked pointedly at the ground. Sighing Lestrade gently tipped Sherlock's chin so he'd look at him, worrying more when Sherlock flinched but didn't protest the movement. It almost seemed like Sherlock was leaning into the gentle touch before finally the shocking blue grey eyes met his own brown eyes. "Sherlock please."

Lestrade watched the fear and hurt shutter across his eyes before a suspicious look was shot to Donovan and Anderson. His closed off mask was back.

"I fell."

"Sherlock I realize you think I'm an idiot but I did go to the police academy, I did take classes and I know these marks and that break were done by someone else to you."

"I fell." Sherlock repeated stubbornly.

Lestrade studied him, the younger man looked almost panicked, licking his lips, his eyes darting around. Something clicked into place at that moment. The inspector sat back on his heels and sighed. He saw Sherlock look at him deducing and he saw the moment when Sherlock realized that Lestrade knew. That he knew who'd caused the damage.

"Lestrade don't.."

"Don't? Don't what? Don't arrest him? Don't say anything, just go on as if he didn't do this?" He burst out silencing Sherlock who stared at him silently.

"He didn't mean it." Sherlock said quietly.

"Oh I suppose like your primary bullies didn't mean it? Or your father? Or your mother?" He burst out, regretting it when once again a pain flashed across Sherlock's face.

"Oi you mean the doctor did that?" Donovan said in amazement.

"Shut up Donovan. I fell there is no more or no less to it."

The alley went silent everyone deciding what to do next.

"So he says he bloody well fell, could you get him off of me?" The suspect yelped from underneath Sherlock who finally stood and allowed Donovan to handcuff him.

Lestrade gently took Sherlock by the arm and led him down the alley past the other officers to his car. Pushing a rather unwilling detective into the front seat, he finally got him in and went around to the drivers side. The younger man just stared straight out of the window, unfocused. He twitched when Lestrade spoke.

"Sherlock, I am taking you to the hospital. I will tell them that a suspect did that, only if you tell me the truth. I promise if you don't want him to get in trouble he won't. But I do need to speak to him. This can't happen again."

Sherlock looked at him suddenly eyes bright. "Tis only what a freak deserves." He said before adding. "However I agree as long as he doesn't get in trouble."

Feeling anger well in him, he did his best to hide it for the younger man's sake, instead turning on the car and driving to the nearest hospital. John Watson would rue the day he laid a hand on Sherlock Holmes.

John paced back and forth in the flat. Sherlock hadn't been home in over a month. He hadn't bothered Lestrade because he was sure the other man would have contacted him if something had happened to the other man. After his anger had calmed some, he'd realized that he missed his friend and a mug wasn't worth ruining that. But try as he might , he couldn't remember what had happened. He had been hoping that Sherlock would come home and they could talk it through. But as the days wore on John was beginning to realize that whatever he'd done it had been a bit not good. Sherlock wasn't answering his phone. He didn't want to get Mycroft involved because he wasn't sure what had happened and the government man would want answers.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a shout from his landlady as she came up the stairs.

"Oh John. What a dear Sherlock is. This package is for you."

John turned and looked at the small package Mrs Hudson was holding out for him. His heart stuttered. He was sure that he really didn't want to open it, but Mrs Hudson looked at him expectantly, so using his pocket knife he sliced the tape and with shaking hands he opened it. Inside nestled in some paper was the exact mug that had been broken weeks before. John slumped back into the seat only half listening to Mrs Hudson babble until something caught his attention.

"What was that Mrs Hudson? What did you just say." Oh God please don't let it be so.

"I said Sherlock took control of the situation immediately after I broke your mug..."

"You broke it?" His voice cracked.

"Why yes dear, didn't Sherlock tell you? I know he's been busy but...Oh did you boy's have a row?"

"He let me believe he'd done it. I don't even remember what happened. Just that I was so angry..."

Suddenly a voice came from the doorway.

"I can probably help you with that." John turned and saw a rather angry Lestrade standing and staring pointedly at him.

"Mrs Hudson perhaps you should go and make some tea." John said absently realizing this wasn't something she should witness. Getting the hint, the landlady simply took off out of the flat, silently closing the door behind her.

Moving forward the inspector threw a couple of files down in front of John.

"Read." He said simply before sitting back.

John looked at him a moment, but at the other man's glare he picked up the files and began to read them. Twenty minutes in and there were tears in his eyes, and he was sure he would never be the same again. Looking up at Lestrade, his voice cracked and he cleared it a couple of times.

"Is this his file?"

"Yes." Lestrade leaned forward."Congragulations you tortured someone who has been tortured literally from the moment he was born. His mother was a depressed mathmatician, who often got bored and ran experiments on Sherlock. I believe he suffers from claustophobia because of one of her favorite punishements/experiments. His father was a lawyer, but no were near as smart as Sherlock or his mother and brother. Mycroft it seemed was able to fit in a bit more. But Sherlock never could or never got the chance. He was beaten and tortured by his father for being intelligent. If that wasn't enough he went to school and the bullies went at him. He's been to the hospital so many times that he should have been removed from their they were rich and high up on the food chain. Money in the right place and he was forced to stay were he was. He had no one in his corner. I found him in a drug loft one time. He managed to help me solve the murder that happened, while high. I read up on him, and I decided to clean him up and give him a chance. You've seen it, I know you have. He is a good man and a good person. He is just jaded and wary. He would rather hurt someone first, before they can hurt him. But he let you in." Lestrade pounded a fist on the table. "For the first time since I've known him he let someone in and you just solidified to him that he is a freak and everyone will hurt him in the end."

"I honestly don't know what happened." John said quietly.

"Watson, you broke his wrist. Twisted it. You bruised his other wrist and the back of his neck..." Lestrade's voice faded as a picture began to form in John's mind.

Sherlock looking at him sadly, almost fearfully. His grip on the wrist. Sherlock trying to escape. The crack of his wrist, echoing as Sherlock gives in and allows John to scream and shove him. And the final act, calling him freak while sending his chemistry equipment to the floor. He'd hurt his best friend in so many ways. For what? A stupid mug that Sherlock hadn't even broken.

Lestrade watched as John's face crumpled, hands covering. He listened as the man whispered his friends name under his breath.

"I know that was the day your sister was put in jail and you had to bail her out. I know that the cup smashed was one your mother gave you before she passed. You were angry." Lestrade paused when John, face splotchy held out his arms in the universal sign for them to be cuffed. "Don't John. I like you. I just need you to understand what went on. Because honestly if it hadn't been for him you would be in a cell right now. Sherlock refused to tell me what happened until I promised him you wouldn't get in trouble. I only got him to the hospital today because he didn't want to go and have questions asked. I had to go and tell them a suspect did it and he'd refused a hospital until I forced him. That way we could explain the fact they had to rebreak it and set it correctly. He will be in a cast for quite sometime."

"Is he coming home?" John finally asked as he processed the information given to him.

"He's outside I told him..." Lestrade was cut off by footsteps coming up the stairs. "To stay there until I texted him." He said sighing and turning towards the door.

"Lestrade this is ridiculous, and the cast itches. I am about ready to cut it off." A voice that John had greatly missed came from the living room.

"Sherlock I told you to stay downstairs."

"And I told you that John wasn't going to do anything." Sherlock stormed in and looked at John."Are you? I deduce you should have received your cup today yes? So everything is settled. Now I have a case to file away."

Sherlock stormed before anyone could respond and lay on the couch to get into his mind palace. Lestrade stood and headed towards the door.

"I guess I know when I'm not wanted." He turned once more to John. "I feel like I know what you are like so I am sure this will never happen again. But John if it does, you will go away."

John nodded his understanding. Lestrade smiled and patted the other man's back. "See you around mate. See you Sherlock."

He didn't bother to wait for a response as he knew one wouldn't be forth coming. He just walked out and left the mates to sort things out for themselves.

Sitting in his chair, John decided to wait Sherlock out. Fiddling with his cup he went deep into thought about how he could fix this. An idea came to his head and he jumped up, deciding that Sherlock would probably stay in his mind palace for a while.

Getting back from his errand, John discovered Sherlock in the same position. Excellent. He went to his room and got to work.

A couple hours later he heard movement coming from the living room and went down to face his wayward friend. Walking in the kitchen he saw Sherlock trying to fiddle with the teapot one handed. He walked up and took it from the detective noticing the slight flinch as Sherlock moved back and looked pointedly at anything else.

"Sherlock, can we talk? Please."

Sherlock shot him a quick sharp look before nodding. Carefully John held out a hand.

"Can I see first?" He asked simply.

Very hesitantly Sherlock held out his arms. John gently stroked the dark finger shape bruises on the left one and looked at the black cast on the other with distaste. Gently he gripped Sherlock by the elbow and led him into the living room. Gesturing for him to take a seat.

John began to pace. "I know that sorry doesn't really matter, it doesn't fix anything. But I need you to know that I can't even begin to explain how sorry I am. I was in a bad place and I took it out on my best friend." He took in Sherlock's shocked look. Turning he knelt in front of his friend. "You are my best friend. You keep me going, and I don't know what I'd do without you. You aren't a freak, or a machine or any other horrible words people call you. You are kind in your own way and I couldn't think of a better person to live with."

He watched Sherlock process this information. Then he saw the other man's face go flat.

"There is no need to apologize. It was simply cause and effect. I don't do conversations such as these, they bore me. So let us skip it. I have things to be doing in my room."

"Sherlock please don't. This isn't over. I -I did this over a stupid mug and it shouldn't have happened."

"Why?" Sherlock asked sharply. "It was important to you."

"Not as important as you, a real person. God."

"Clearly it was."

John felt despair, he turned trying to figure out what to do. He paused and saw the replacement mug. Grabbing it he smashed it to the floor.

"Sherlock that is an object. I made a mistake, but that object means nothing. My mum meant something, you mean something and I don't need objects to know that. Please I just want us to go back to how we were."

"We are fine John. I've got things to be doing."

John watched as Sherlock ran from the room as quickly as his dignity would allow. Sighing he realized he should have known better than to think it would be that easy. Sherlock had been hurt before, words didn't matter. Actions, and time mattered. Going upstairs he grabbed the gift he'd bought and placed it on the kitchen table before going to clear the glass of his second mug. Taking a cup of tea he disappeared up into his room, debating on what to do next.

******8  
It was about 2 in the morning, Sherlock was finally sure that John was sleeping. He snuck out into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. As he flicked on the light, a package on the table caught his attention. Going up to it, he saw a note attached to it. He grabbed it and scanned it.

- Sherlock, I am so sorry about your chemistry set. I hope this is a proper replacement for the microscope that I damaged. We can go shopping together to finish off the rest of your set whenever your ready.-

Sherlock smiled a bit before, much like a child, he gleefully ripped open the microscope. He laughed a bit when he realized it was taken from St. Barts. More than perfect. Running to his room, he grabbed a few slides he'd been meaning to check out and set them beside the microscope, then grabbed his phone. He had a quick call to make.

John hadn't slept well, so he was up later than normal. Keeping an ear out he heard nothing from the flat. Turning the corner into the living room he paused. There on his chair stand sat the very mug he'd smashed the evening before. He walked forward and noticed a piece of paper sitting in it. Opening it he smiled when he saw the familiar scratch of Sherlock.

-Do try not to break this one, Mycroft called in several favors. If you're up to a case I am at Scotland Yard. Could be dangerous.  
SH-

John smiled and grabbed is coat, running out into London after his best friend.

Hope you liked, as I said Sherlock was a bit OOC but I hope it was ok. R and R.


End file.
